


Nothing But A Tomb

by heartstone



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Can be read as romance or as friendship, Depression, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Season Three, Unnamed Original Character - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:47:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23933305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartstone/pseuds/heartstone
Summary: Dust settled thick on the floor like the sands of an hourglass, concealing the debris of an earlier time. Broken glass, splintered wood, crumbling stone… all hidden scars under the slow fall of dreary grey. Black ashes spilled from the hearth but the seated figure remained transfixed on its gaping emptiness as if from the cold remains of a fire he could see the ghost-flicker of whispering flames.***
Relationships: Alucard | Adrian Tepes | Arikado Genya & Original Male Character(s), Alucard | Adrian Tepes | Arikado Genya/Original Male Character(s)
Kudos: 6





	Nothing But A Tomb

“Hope, are you nothing but a tomb?”

(Rosario Castellanos)

***

I.

The woman in the portrait had a soft smile, one that was unable to reach her eyes— as if she had understood in its painting that the memory of the oils would one day be the only vibrancy left in the room. Forever she looked out, wistfully peering at the figure hunched in the room’s only chair as she cradled a bouquet of white lilies.

Dust settled thick on the floor like the sands of an hourglass, concealing the debris of an earlier time. Broken glass, splintered wood, crumbling stone… all hidden scars under the slow fall of dreary grey. Black ashes spilled from the hearth but the seated figure remained transfixed on its gaping emptiness as if from the cold remains of a fire he could see the ghost-flicker of whispering flames. He gripped onto the arm of the chair with pale fingers until the wood protested the abusive nails that began to dig deeper the anxious gashes made by a former master.

There were footsteps in the hall. That was nothing new— he heard them often, the excited patter of small feet. A giggle and the softer steps of slippers chasing after, pausing at the door. But this gait was unfamiliar and brought with it something the memories never did: a heartbeat. Steady and seeming loud to his inhuman senses it pumped outside the locked door of the room. He trembled and a large strip of wood curled from raking nails, falling to the floor as the door handle was tried. He stayed still until the footsteps continued down the hall and faded, until he could no longer hold the tremor in his breath at his own pitiful thirst for the imprint of blood— of _warmth—_ those footsteps heralded.

It was as if centuries had passed him by and then suddenly, time stopped.

II.

Breakfast was already laid out, as it had been each morning since he had first awoken. He sat up, moth-bitten blankets falling in thin folds around him as he considered the fine porcelain set on the table. Only the fading bruises and mending cuts on his arms and legs convinced him that he wasn’t living the same day over and over again, wandering labyrinthine halls, rattling the countless doors, checking for windows free from iron bars or nailed-shut shutters. _Someone_ had to live here, _someone_ had to make his meals, set them out and take them away.

He played absentmindedly with the frayed hem of his blanket. It took him only seven more heartbeats to realize that today, something was different.

There was a cold spot in the room that did not come from the windows, a collection of shadows in the far corner that the lifeless blue lights could not illumine. It took his eyes many moments to adjust enough to the darkness to make out a slender cloaked figure, its pale hands, the velvet quality of the shade cast from a large hood, hiding a face.

“Who are you?” he asked. His voice was much too loud, as if the castle itself winced at the disturbance.

There was no answer.

“Why am I here?”

Many moments of silence before a raspy whisper, a labored sigh. It took a while for the figure to speak, as if trying to remember how to form words.

 _“You trespassed,”_ it said, _“But I helped you anyways.”_

The figure stepped back, seemed to become insubstantial as he blended with the deeper shadows. Both form and voice faded like a ghost.

_“You will stay in recompense.”_

III.

Time was irrelevant here, waking to breakfast at the little table in his room and wandering the castle for unlocked doors: libraries of crumbling books and ancient scrolls, laboratories of shattered glass and corroded metal, suites of yellowed linen filled with chipping paintings in heavy frames. But never any sign of inhabitants for the many beds or readers for the many books. He wandered aimlessly, footsteps echoing down the corridor. The running red of the carpet was unraveled here, bearing the signs of some kind of terrible battle. He remembered passing the same way what seemed like years ago, following the rubble and scorch-marks, the flaking brown of old blood… but this time a door was open.

A study. Dust covered the floor like mould, the sharp edge of a piece of broken mirror glimmered faintly from the light that spilled though the open door. Shelves were splintered, the stone mantel crumbling, and a woman looked on his lingering at the threshold sadly, her bouquet of white lilies luminous in the all the grey. A chair faced the ashes of the hearth and his footsteps sent motes flying into the still air as he approached, pausing some distance away from the figure that sat there. It was the same man as before: slender shoulders, engulfing black cloak, pale hands which scraped away at the wood of the arm of the chair.

“The library from a few days ago,” he whispered, “It would’ve taken centuries to compile.”

There was no answer, save a slow peeling sound.

“Why is it all locked up? Why isn’t it all being studied or shared?”

The peeling sounds stopped, the hood turning towards him slightly as if considering. He thought for a moment he could see the edge of it quiver.

 _“Why would you want to share it?”_ the figure asked.

The dust he had stirred up settled in his wake. He recalled, unwittingly, those villagers that had chased him into the forest with the intent of hunting him like some animal. He recalled the sting of the pine branches that hit him as he ran, the gnarled root that tripped him, his desperate insistence that he had not lied: he was not a witch. The spires of a castle loomed above the tree-tops as they beat him. His pleas hadn’t mattered in the end, yet…

“Perhaps they can be made to understand.”

He did not know if he said it to himself or to the figure, but the woman in the painting seemed to agree.

IV.

He begins to clean the rooms he finds unlocked. There was something peaceful about uncovering what was hidden by the dust, of letting the sunlight in from behind heavy curtains, lighting fires in the cold, empty hearths. He couldn’t fix the gashes in the wood or the cracks in the stone but the light and warmth made the castle seem alive, inhabited by more than just ghosts. He begins to count the days by each room he cleans and thinks that he does not mind being stuck in this purgatory, suspended in time.

He sings as he works until the castle doesn’t cringe at the breaking of silence. Everything around him is watchful, as if waiting for something. He knows that _that man_ watches him as he works, as he eats, as he reads the many books until late at night he slips under the moth-bitten blankets and the feeling of eyes fades away.

“What is your name?” he asks one day as he scrubs the floor free of dried blood until it gleams.

He can _feel_ the man frown, hidden though it was under the hood. He didn’t expect an answer and isn’t surprised when he is only met with more silence. He has learned to not let it deter him.

“What’s your favorite colour?”

The figure inhales a soft gasp. It is the first real reaction he has gotten from him and he can’t help but bite his lip to hold back a laugh. He wonders if anyone’s even been curious enough to ask, if he even knows something so simple about himself. He waits patiently, expectantly.

“It isn’t black, is it?” he teases. He wonders if the man can laugh or if it has been so long that he has forgotten.

***

The figure passes the many doors, gliding through the winding halls effortlessly. He enters a little room at the end of a battered hallway and looks up at the twinkling stars painted on the ceiling, then down at the scorch marks under his feet where the silver glint of an old wedding band gleams next to floorboards faded smooth. He does not rest there at night any longer; instead he begins to dust the shelves, set his childhood books in order, clear up the rubble and soot. Though quiet, he even begins to hum as he works, as he straightens the family portrait. His mother’s eyes sparkle the most vivid of blues.

V.

He discovers the greenhouse on his fortieth day and spends a week fixing it up before he begins to press seeds into the soil. From the windows of the castle he can see that it is nearly spring and so he sings about the new green and the warmth of summer to come. The figure has ceased to pretend he does not watch him, broods in the back of the room but fails to be imposing any longer. Moreover, the sun peeks out from behind the clouds and sends beams of gold through the room made entirely of glass— there are no shadows for him to hide in, save those that collect under the hood and cloak.

 _“I know that one,”_ the man whispers, so low he barely hears him. His voice is flat as ever, but there is a longing under it that cannot be hidden, a quality to his intonation that betrays melancholy.

“Who sung if for you?”

He waters the seed he had just planted and the thirsty soil soaks it up. He does not wait for a reply, keeps working, picking up the pot and placing it on a shelf near the figure where he stands. His pale hands grasp the frayed edge of the cloak to keep it around him and the ruffled end of his sleeve slips down his arm.

_“It was a long time ago.”_

They both pretend not to notice the band of old silver scars around his wrist.

VI.

One day he wakes up early and he goes to the study with the portrait of the woman holding lilies and finds that it is unlocked like he had hoped.

When the figure finds him the dust is gone along with the broken glass, the crumbling stone, the splinters of wood. There is a new mirror in the corner that reflects the light of the flickering fire around the room, and there are plants growing green under the portrait. His chair is there facing the warmth of the hearth but there is another at its side. They both look at each other, waiting.

 _“What is this?”_ the figure hisses so coldly he surprises even himself, makes him shudder at its sting. His nails bite into his own palm. His _guest_ looks confused, opens his mouth to reply, but he is faster—

_“Leave.”_

He hesitates only for a moment. He has come to understand his moods and all his subtleties. As he leaves he catches a glimpse under the shadows of a pointed chin and red lips parted in a grimace, with two needle-fangs glimmering.

VII.

Time moved by slowly since they had last spoken and now the study door was always locked. He decides one morning to wake up early again before he can be followed— this time he finds the kitchen.

When the figure finally finds him the table is already set and the food has just been placed out. It is simple, really: warm bread and dried fruit, oats and honey, steeping tea. They stare at each other for a moment, breathing quietly. Now the silence is strange and the castle yearns for sound.

“Sit and eat?” he asks, and the figure knows that it is an apology.

The two dolls in the corner watch on, frayed and stained. One of them is missing an arm and the other has a loose blue button-eye. They seem finally content as their maker sits awkwardly in the chair at the table, takes his first bite of food in what seems like centuries. He shudders at the floral notes in the honey, the wholesome texture of the bread, the feeling of the tea as it warms his lips when he sips.

VIII.

Something is different again, when he awakes. The castle is no longer still and it smells like spring. A breeze actually makes its way through the stale halls and from the open windows he can hear the song of birds. He goes to the study first, but there is no one there.

Downstairs the massive iron doors are open, doors leading to the outside where the earth is yellow-green with spring and the first rays of the golden dawn break through the new canopy. A voice comes from behind him then, smooth and deep—

 _“Leave,”_ it says. The steps do not wait for a reply and fade further into the castle, retreating into the labyrinthine halls. The figure had tried to remain stoic, as was his wont, but the strain was unmistakable. Resigned. Tired.

He stood on the threshold of his freedom, following with his eyes the ivy growing down the cracked grey stairs. Its vine twisted around the two stakes on either side of the doorway holding up sun-blanched bones: two faces turned up to the sky.

IX.

His nails dig deep into the chair’s arms, scouring the wood so that the slivers fall at his feet. There is a fire going in the hearth but it burns low and flickers often as if struggling to remain hot and bright. The portrait of his mother looks on at him with mournful blue eyes and her armful of white lilies. He trembles at the sound of a familiar gait approaching, one that brings with it the warmth and song of rushing blood. It stops outside the door and tries the handle, and pushes it open when it is found to be unlocked.

 _“Leave.”_ He cannot hide the tremor in his voice.

The footsteps do not retreat out of the castle, do not escape through the open door. They come in further. There is no longer any dust for him to stir up as he moves around the two chairs to stand in front of the fireplace until the flames outline him in gold and red, giving him a halo as he kneels down in front of where he sits hunched in his father’s chair. His nails stop scraping and he grips the wood tightly until it creaks, slender shoulders shaking.

The hood falls and the shadows disperse. The man is radiant, the warm splendor of the golden sun and the cold elegance of the silver moon all at once. His eyes have dark circles and tear-trails fall along his cheeks.

A final sliver of wood falls from his grip and lands on the gleaming floor.

 _“I must already be dead,”_ he whispers, red lips trembling over white fangs.

The castle is silent, as if waiting for something.

“No."

The pale hands are cold under his own and there is nothing to hide hope and anguish.

“You’ve merely forgotten,” he says.

X.

They both stand with their feet in the young green of the grass between the castle and the ruins of an estate. The sun comes up fully above the trees now and the wind blows softly, heralding the warmth of the coming summer. The figure turns to him with a smile, a smile which reaches his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> This is quite out of my comfort zone... but I felt I needed to write this one out so I can move on, you know? I would love to hear your thoughts. I'm not sure about characterization or anything about this. Sorry if leaving out names was strange, but I felt that it was necessary.  
> ***


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